


See the Unseen

by Dickensgal31



Series: Clean [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickensgal31/pseuds/Dickensgal31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Cas sees differently from Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See the Unseen

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This is a follow up to my first Destiel story, Wash It Away. It is the second in a series called CLEAN. I found this picture as potent as the shower one and after, again, trying to resist, I just couldn’t. Once again, I don’t know who clipped the original scene, but I thank them and Kyrie101 who reblogged it to me at Tumblr. I hope you like what I’ve done! Disclaimer is at the end. Enjoy, Lisa

_We look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen,  
for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal.  
(2 Corinthians 4:18, KJV)_

 

Sleep leaves Dean almost as swiftly as it descended hours earlier. He doesn’t move but leaves his hand across his stomach where he remembers covering Cas’ hand. Flexing his back muscles he reaches for Cas but meets only emptiness.

Finally allowing his eyes to flutter open he reaches his left hand behind him into nothing. He closes his eyes again and lets out a shallow sigh as he turns onto his back. Staring at the ceiling he runs his hand absently down his chest feeling Cas holding him.

_He did hold me, didn’t he?_

He let out another thin sigh and lost himself in the dimples of the ceiling as he’d done for so many sleepless nights. Listening to the bunker he hears only the heavy silence that usually accompanies his nocturnal ponderings.

He shivers with memories that are too potent, too cutting and too raw that must be borne as they always have. The tiny sound of the clock ticking over sounds overly loud and draws Dean’s attention for a moment.

_Four. Fuck!_

“Nothing like losing an entire day,” he murmurs to himself. “There’s gotta be something to be said for not fucking up anything important.”

Pulling himself up he drags his legs off the bed. Balancing his elbows on his knees he grips the short spikes of his hair as if squeezing his head will erase the thoughts that hammer at him.

Running his hands through his hair he pushes up with a short sigh. He ignores the arrows of pain that shoot through his old-before-its-time body.

The quiet of the bunker weighs heavy as he stands for a moment gathering himself. Splaying his hand over his stomach and one rubbing at the small of his back, he feels the spot that Cas always leaves a kiss. Shaking his head he wonders at the angel.

_It’s good Cas left. It’s good._

Dean nodded to himself as he threw the covers back over his bed.

 _My bed._ “Fuck,” he whispered to the empty room.

. . .

Cas stood over the table where Dean always did his work, his research on how to kill a beast, stop a demon, save someone, save Sam. He ghosts his hand over the back of Dean’s chair, over the papers he’s left strewn across the broad table.

“Dean,” he breathes out on a sigh, “oh, Dean.” He fingers the empty bottle of scotch resting on top of the beaten leather-bound book he now knows belonged to Dean’s father. “You have a lot to answer for John Winchester,” he whispers to the empty room.

Cas closes his eyes and wishes for once he could reach out to his own Father. He knows there had to be a plan. And there has to be a plan for Dean, for never had he met a human more deserving.

Sinking down into the chair that usually holds his friend, his lover he presses his back against the leather. He loses himself in his first memories of the man God commanded him to save. Dean’s shock at finding himself raised from perdition by an Angel of the Lord. Cas can’t help smirking as he remembers Dean’s distrust of that very thing. He remembers the deep timbre of Dean’s voice and the surety, the shock. _‘There’s no such thing’. He was so sure. And I accused him of being without faith. How shortsighted!_

Cas breathes through the memory of beating Dean bloody only to have him plead for him to stop, reminding him that they were family that he needed him. Dean needed him. Needs him, still. He shuts his mind against the pain of that memory, the pain of his Dean’s voice stoically begging him to stop.

_“Bottom of the ninth, Cas, and you’re the only guy left on the bench? Sorry, but I’d rather have you, cursed or not… we’re all cursed.”_

Looking in the direction of Dean’s room, Cas rose quickly. He ran his hand over the back of the chair. It was almost a caress as if Dean, himself, were sitting there. He knows Dean is awake. He can feel the same pain radiating from his soul that he always feels, with the exception that this was deeper than usual. It was as deep as it had been last night and in the past weeks. It fills Cas’ heart with a dread he’s not felt even when he fell from heaven.

. . .

Dean looks at the vague outline of his body, his face through the steamed mirror. He can barely see and he really doesn’t want to see what he knows he will. But never one to shy away from life’s consequences he slowly sweeps the steam from the mirror.

He meets the face of a man that is worn-out. He meets the face of a man that is used up and not in a good way. His eyes look dead even to him. And he can’t help but look away only to see the marks his life have left on his body.

He runs his hand over the anti-possession sigil he and Sam once wore together. He looks at the inside of his right arm at Cain’s brand matched by the still faint imprint of Cas’ hand burned onto his shoulder.

He doesn’t see the man he once thought himself. Sam’s protector, John’s soldier, Mary’s son. He searches the eyes that look back at him. Hard, unyielding eyes. Eyes drained of a spark he likes to think was once there.

“You are so fucked,” he whispers hoarsely to his reflection.

Slamming his eyes closed doesn’t stop the images of all his failures running on an endless loop. Sam going after Crowley, Sam covered the inky blood of the Hellhounds, Sam broken by Lucifer, falling into the pit with Adam, Sam smeared in demon blood, Sam fighting with John, fighting him.

He runs his hand over the Mark of the First that, now, marks him. His blood runs cold in the still steamy bathroom. “I can’t do this,” he groans to his reflection, “I can’t lose anymore.”

“Dear Boy, you’ve not lost, yet.”

Dean shudders and blinks as he turns suddenly from the reflection he sees.

“Death?” He hears his own surprise. His body tenses and then relaxes. “It’s time?”

“For someone, it is, but not for you,” he looked pointedly at the brand on Dean’s arm. “So, I do not have much time.”

Dean’s eyes hold the beady stare of the only man, spirit, being, he truly respected, truly feared.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Death shifts his walking stick from hand-to-hand. “You have your Angel back, you have Sam,” he shrugs, “well, truth is Sam has always been the wild card.” He looks into Dean’s confused eyes, “that’s why he needs you, Dean. You are the constant for him.”

“He despises me, he doesn’t,” Dean’s voice breaks, “he doesn’t trust me.”

“No,” Death drawls, “I don’t imagine that he would.” He takes Dean’s arm, “You’ve taken on quite a burden, here.” He looks searchingly into Dean’s eyes, “It would not have been given if you weren’t worthy.”

“Of being the ultimate whore for evil? Of killing my brother?” Dean feels his body go rigid, his heart clench as his stomach roils at the mere thought of killing the one person he loves most.

“No,” Death gives Dean an almost smile, “of doing what you were intended to do, Dean. Remember,” he leans in closer, “it’s all about the souls, Dean. Remember.” And he’ gone

Dean shakes the vision from his head and turns back to the mirror. “What about the damned souls? What the hell… why won’t anyone be clear?” His voice cracks, “I just want to stop.”

He rubs at the rivulets of water etching down the glossy surface, “I don’t want this fight,” the hoarse whisper is drawn from him as he slumps over the counter. He lets out a shuddering breath as fresh, hot tears burn behind his eyes and finally escape.

Cas looks on as Dean’s shoulders heave. He wars with himself but only for a moment. He pads up softly behind Dean, his friend, his lover, he wraps his arms around him and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Dean,” Cas whispers softly, “what can I do?”

Dean just shakes his head, “I thought you’d gone,” he whispers.

Cas places a small chaste kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck, “I’m not leaving you. Why would you think that?”

Dean lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, “I’m so tired, Cas.” He looks up at their reflection, “I don’t know if I can do this.” Their eyes lock, “I don’t know if I want to…”

Cas drops soft kisses down the hollow of Dean’s spine and across his broad shoulders.

“Cas,” Dean leans into his kisses, “Death was here, I think.”

The Angel looks over his lover’s shoulder, “Death?” His brows rise in inquiry, “Why?”

“He said it isn’t my time,” Dean hisses softly, “he said it’s about the souls.” He raises his arm, “He said I’d taken on quite a burden.”

Cas wraps his arms around Dean as he comes to stand in front of him, “And you have.” He rests his butt against the sink and brings Dean into the vee of his legs. Looking down at Cain’s brand, he ghosts his fingers over the burn he’d left on Dean so many years ago, “D’you remember when I raised you from perdition?”

Dean nods.

“You remember I told you it was because God commanded it, because you had work to do,” Cas reminds him softly.

“I remember, Cas,” Dean’s voice drawls solemnly, “but I’ve failed.”

“No,” Cas frowns, “you’ve not finished.”

Dean leans his head against Cas’ shoulder, “How can I not have failed,” he questions, “how, when I don’t even believe there is a God?”

Cas hums as he thinks, “I accused you then, when we met in that barn, of having no faith, but you do, Dean. Watching you fight,” he presses his cheek to Dean’s bowed head, “and keep on fighting for human-kind, for Sam, for me,” he cups Dean’s face and locks his eyes on his lover’s, “it’s humbling, Dean.”

“Cas.”

The despair Cas hears chills him to his core. He locks his eyes on the Hunter, “I’ve lived many millennia, Dean, and I’ve not met another man like you.”

“Cas,” Dean pulls away trying to dismiss the Angel’s words.

“Don’t do that,” Cas hisses, “do not degrade yourself or me.” Cas pulls him back against him, “You look in the mirror and see only your failures.” He slides off the sink and comes around Dean, “Look in the mirror and see this.” As if a projector switch was flicked scenes from Dean’s life play across the mirror. All the times he’d killed a beast, burned a ghost, put himself on the line for others, rescued Sam, fought Cas, fought the angels, the demons, the decades of Alistair’s torture to survive Hell. All of them right before his eyes.

“These events,” Cas pulls Dean tighter against him, “are how eternity will judge you, Dean.”

 

 

_But in accordance with your hardness and your impenitent heart you are treasuring up  
for yourself wrath in the day of wrath and revelation of the righteous judgment of God,  
who “will render to each one according to his deeds.” (Romans 2:5-6, NKJV)_

 

 

End, Part Two 

**Comments are welcomed and appreciated! Thanks for reading, Lisa**

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright Disclaimer: That all characters are the property of Warner Bros. Television, CW Network LLC, Wonderland Sound and Vision, and Eric Kripke is fully acknowledged. No copyright infringement intended. Character names are merely borrowed for fun. I do not own any characters, products or services depicted in this story which you may recognize. The canon characters of the series, Supernatural, are out of their series character, hence Section 107 of the US Copyright Clause on 'Fair Use' is cited. This is, in majority, a transformative work, solely enjoyed by a specific audience and no profit is realized. Original characters and/or characterizations, story concepts and plot are the property of the author publishing as Dickensgal or Dickensgal31.


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